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MIMMA    BELLA 


MIMMA  BELLA 

BY  EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON 

WITH  PORTRAIT  OF  AUTHOR 


LONDON 

WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 

MCMIX 


Copyright,  London,  1909,  dy  William  Heinemann 


Preface. 

IN  1894  a  volume  entitled  "Sonnets  of  the  Wingless 
Hours  "  placed  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton  indisputably  among 
the  masters  of  the  sonnet. 

Not  until  this  book  had  captured  the  critics  was  it  known 
that  the  writer  of  so  many  distinguished  volumes  of  verse 
had  been  lying  for  twenty  years  in  the  twilight  of  a  cruel 
and  mysterious  malady. 

The  sonnets  were  a  cry  from  the  living  grave  in  which  his 
youth  had  been  buried. 

He  had  written  : 

"  And  now  my  manhood  goes  where  goes  the  song 
Of  captive  birds,  the  cry  of  crippled  things ; 
It  goes  where  goes  the  day  that  unused  dies. 
The  cage  is  narrow,  and  the  bars  are  strong, 
In  which  my  restless  spirit  beats  its  wings  ; 
And  round  me  stretch  unfathomable  skies." 

Thus  it  seemed  no  less  than  miraculous  when,  after  twenty 
years,  Eugene  Lee-Hamilton  rose  from  that  living  grave  to 
take  his  place  again  in  the  world  of  men. 

Youth  was  gone  beyond  recall  ;  but  hope  came  to  him, 
and,  after  a  while,  love  ;  and  still  later  the  promise  of  a 
bright  young  life  to  retrieve  the  lost  years. 

The  promise  ended  in  denial,  the  pain  of  which  called 
forth  a  more  poignant  cry,  the  sonnet  sequence  "  Mimma 
Bella;  In  Memory  of  a  Little  Life." 

Eugene  Lee-Hamilton  was  born  in  London  in  1845. 
He  lost  his  father  early,  and  his  mother,  a  woman  of  marked 


force  and  individuality,  superintended  his  education  under 
tutors  in  France  and  Germany. 

At  nineteen  he  went  to  Oriel  College,  Oxford,  where  he 
took  the  Taylorian  Scholarship  for  Modern  Languages  and 
Literature. 

He  entered  the  Diplomatic  Service  in  1869,  and  after 
a  term  in  the  Foreign  Office  was  attached  to  the  British 
Embassy  at  Paris. 

He  served  three  years  under  Lord  Lyons,  and  in  1871 
went  to  Geneva  as  interpreter  for  the  Alabama  Arbitration. 

During  the  changes  necessitated  by  the  Franco-German 
War  and  the  Commune  he  accompanied  the  Embassy  to 
Tours,  Bordeaux,  and  Versailles. 

He  was  appointed  to  the  Legation  at  Lisbon  in  1873; 
and  here  illness  shattered  an  always  delicate  constitution. 
Anaemia  and  alarming  disturbances  of  the  circulation  showed 
themselves  ;  and  he  left  Lisbon  in  a  semi-paralysed  condition 
that  gave  no  hope  of  recovery.  His  brief  and  distinguished 
diplomatic  career  was  ended. 

They  took  him  to  Florence,  to  the  wheeled  bed  on  which 
he  was  to  lie  night  and  day  for  twenty  years. 

The  heavy  gloom  of  those  wingless  hours  was  lightened 
by  his  mother's  devotion,  and  the  loving  companionship  of 
his  brilliant  young  half-sister,  later  to  be  known  in  literature 
as  Vernon  Lee. 

After  a  while  friends  could  be  seen  ;  and  soon  names 
distinguished  in  literature,  art,  politics,  gathered  round  the 
brother  and  sister.  The  room  where  he  spent  the  afternoon 
in  the  intervals  of  suffering  became  in  those  days  one  of  the 
most  notable  centres  in  the  intellectual  life  of  Florence. 

Then,  little  by  little,  he  could  bear  to  be  read  to  ;  he 
could  dictate  a  fragment  of  verse,  the  sextet  of  a  sonnet, 


TU 


sometimes  one  line  only.  And  so  he  built  his  books.  He 
tells  us  himself  what  poetry  meant  to  him  in  those  terrible 
years. 

"  I  think  the  fairies  to  my  christening  came  ; 
But  they  were  wicked  sprites,  and  envious  elves 
Who  brought  me  gall  as  bitter  as  themselves 
In  tiny  tankards  wrought  with  fairy  flame. 

They  wished  me  love  of  books — each  little  dame — 
With  power  to  read  no  book  upon  my  shelves ; 
Fair  limbs  for  numbness,  Dead  Sea  fruit  by  twelves, 
And  every  bitter  blessing  you  can  name. 

But  one  good  elf  there  was,  and  she  let  fall 
A  single  drop  of  Poesy's  wine  of  gold 
In  every  little  tankard  full  of  gall. 

So  year  by  year,  as  woes  and  pains  grow  old, 
The  little  golden  drop  is  in  them  all  ; 
But  bitterer  is  the  cup  than  can  be  told." 

In  1 878  he  published  his  first  volume,  "  Poems  and  Tran- 
scripts.'' This  was  followed  in  1880  by  "  Gods,  Saints,  and 
Men  "  ;  and  then,  at  wide  distances,  by  "  The  New  Medusa," 
"  Apollo  and  Marsyas,"  "  Imaginary  Sonnets,"  "  The  Foun- 
tain of  Youth,''  and  "  Sonnets  of  the  Wingless  Hours." 

The  *' Sonnets  of  the  Wingless  Hours"  (1894)  were  to 
be  the  last  of  the  series  written  in  helplessness.  There  were 
signs  of  a  change  in  the  disease.  Slowly  and  gradually  move- 
ment came  back.  In  1896  the  prisoner  was  free  and  restored 
to  the  outer  world.  His  delight  in  life,  birds,  trees,  sunshine, 
ix  b 


was  pathetic  and  very  beautiful.  Everything  was  new  to 
him.  It  was  a  boy's  soul  looking  out  of  the  eyes  of  fifty 
years.  He  was  eager  for  new  experiences,  new  scenes  and 
countries.      He  went  to  Canada  and  the  United  States. 

It  was  soon  after  his  return  that  I  met  him  in  Florence,  in 
1897,  and  the  following  year  we  were  married. 

In  1900  we  moved  out  from  Florence  to  the  Villa  Bene- 
dettini,  among  the  olives  on  the  hill-slope  above  the  city. 

He  was  a  charming  host,  a  brilliant  causeur,  and  the 
grey  old  villa  was  soon  alive  with  social  and  literary  activity. 
My  husband's  translation  of  Dante's  "  Inferno  "  had  already 
appeared,  as  well  as  a  little  volume  of  poems,  "  Forest 
Notes,"  which  we  had  written  together  in  the  New  Forest 
during  the  honeymoon.  Now  he  set  to  work  on  the 
"  Purgatorio." 

He  compiled  a  selection  from  his  poems  for  the  "  Canter- 
bury Poets  "  series ;  and  wrote  two  novels,  "  The  Lord  of 
the  Dark  Red  Star  "  and  "  The  Romance  of  the  Fountain." 

In  1 903  our  little  girl  was  born.  We  called  her  Persis — 
"  The  Beloved  "  ;  but  the  kindly  Italians  rechristened  her 
"  Mimma  Bella "  (the  Beautiful  Baby),  and  she  became 
Mimma  Bella  to  us  all. 

The  child  filled  her  father's  life  ;  it  was  almost  as  if  she 
gave  him  back  something  of  what  he  had  lost. 

Every  morning  he  worked  beside  her  cot  at  his  translation, 
or  at  his  new  tragedy,  "  Ezelin  "  ;  every  evening  he  wove 
rhymes  for  her,  walking  up  and  down  the  long  room 
carrying  her. 

His  only  lyrics  now  were  the  songs  he  made  and  sang  to 
her ;  his  only  verses  the  nonsense  rhymes  he  recited  while 
she  sat,  charmed,  on  his  knee. 

He  never  wearied  of  planning  her  life,  dreaming  of  her 


XI 


future.  The  best  of  earth  was  to  be  stored  and  poured  out 
for  her. 

The  dream  lasted  nearly  two  years.     In  1904  she  died. 

He  had  dipped  his  pen  in  delicate  fancy  to  write  on  the 
death  of  Puck.  He  dipped  it  now  in  his  heart's  blood  to 
write  his  child's  elegy.  When  "  Mimma  Bella  "  was  written 
his  work  was  done  ;  for  life  had  dealt  him  too  hard  a  blow, 
and  his  strength  was  spent. 

Weakness  and  depression  culminated  in  a  stroke  of 
paralysis  ;  and  after  months  of  tragic  suffering  death  came. 

He  died  at  Villa  Pierotti,  Bagni  di  Lucca,  on  September  7, 
1907  ;  and  was  brought  to  Florence  to  lie  beside  his  mother 
and  his  child. 

And  now  on  June  nights,  when  the  fireflies  sparkle  among 
the  olives  in  the  lonely  villa  garden,  I  see  another  garden 
where  they  flash  about  the  laurels  and  the  cypresses  and  the 
crowding  graves,  lighting  the  bronze  letters  that  plead  softly, 
"  Greet  Persis  the  Beloved." 

Annie  Lee-Hamilton. 

Villa  Benedettini,  Florence, 
November  1908, 


xm 


Contents, 

Preface  :  p.  v. 

The  Weaving  of  the  ;^  Sonnets  :  p.  i. 

Mimma  Bella  :  p.  3. 

Last  Sonnets  :  p.  6 1 . 


XT 


The  Weaving  of  the  Sonnets. 

As  in  the  banner'd  and  emblazon'd  room 
Of  some  great  feudal  keep,  in  days  of  old, 
White  queenly  fingers  wrought  in  cloth  of  gold 
Fantastic  patterns  on  a  royal  loom  ; 
Wrought  tendril,  magic  leaf,  and  lily  bloom 
Where  dragon,  lynx,  and  pawing  pard  were  scroll'd, 
Or  those  strange  roses  sainted  queens  behold 
Who,  pale  hands  folded,  sleep  in  minster  gloom  : 

So  Fancy  works  upon  the  frame  of  Time 

Her  pageantry  with  gold  eternal  rays 

Into  the  web  of  even  fate  and  odd. 

Till  gleams  some  sonnet,  where  a  hem  of  rhyme 

Borders  such  dream-shapes  as,  for  angel  gaze, 

Shine,  in  the  pattern  on  the  Stole  of  God. 


Mimma  Bella. 

In  Memory  of  a  Little  Life. 

I. 

Have  dark  Egyptians  stolen  thee  away, 
O  Baby,  Baby,  in  whose  cot  we  peer 
As  down  some  empty  gulf  that  opens  sheer 
And  fathomless,  illumined  by  no  ray  ? 

And  wilt  thou  come,  on  some  far-distant  day. 
With  unknown  face,  and  say,  "  Behold  !  I'm  here. 
The  child  you  lost  "  ;  while  we  in  sudden  fear. 
Dumb  with  great  doubt,  shall  find  no  word  to  say  ? 

One  darker  than  dark  gipsy  holds  thee  fast ; 
One  whose  strong  fingers  none  has  forced  apart 
Since  first  they  closed  on  things  that  were  too  fair ; 

Nor  shall  we  see  thee  other  than  thou  wast. 
But  such  as  thou  art,  printed  in  the  heart. 
In  changeless  baby  loveliness  still  there. 


II. 


Two  springs  she  saw — two  radiant  Tuscan  springs, 
What  time  the  wild  red  tulips  are  aflame 
In  the  new  wheat,  and  wreaths  of  young  vine  frame 
The  daffodils  that  every  light  breeze  swings ; 

And  the  anemones  that  April  brings 

Make  purple  pools,  as  if  Adonis  came 

Just  there  to  die ;  and  Florence  scrolls  her  name 

In  every  blossom  Primavera  flings. 

Now,  when  the  scented  iris,  straight  and  tall, 
Shall  hedge  the  garden  gravel  once  again 
With  pale  blue  flags,  at  May's  exulting  call, 

And  when  the  amber  roses,  wet  with  rain, 
Shall  tapestry  the  old  grey  villa  wall, 
We,  left  alone,  shall  seek  one  bud  in  vain. 


III. 

'Tis  March  ;  and  on  the  hills  that  stretch  away 
In  misty  furrows  in  the  growing  night 
The  peasants  keep  their  old  Etruscan  rite, 
And  wave  strange  fires,  like  will-o'-wisps  at  play  ; 

Chanting  an  incantation  that  shall  lay 
The  spirits  that  bring  drought  and  hail  and  blight, 
And  keeping  with  the  sheaves  of  straw  they  light 
In  the  green  wheat  all  demon  spite  at  bay. 

Ah  me  !  this  spring  we  have  no  seed  to  shield 

From  Life's  dark  possibilities  of  ill ; 

Nor  look  we  on  the  hills  where  wave  the  fires  ; 

Nor,  hopeful  as  the  tillers  of  the  field, 
Repeat  the  words  of  magic  that  they  still 
Intone  in  March,  as  did  their  antique  sires. 


IV. 

If  we  could  know  the  silent  shapes  that  pass 
Across  our  lives,  we  should  perchance  have  seen 
God's  Messenger  with  dusky  pinions  lean 
Above  the  cot,  and  scan  as  in  the  glass 

Of  some  clear  forest  water,  framed  in  grass, 
The  likeness  of  his  own  seraphic  mien ; 
And  heard  the  call,  implacably  serene, 
Of  Him  Who  is,  Who  will  be,  and  Who  was. 

O  Azrael,  why  tookest  thou  the  child 
'Neath  thy  great  wings,  that  lock  as  in  a  vice, 
From  all  that  is  alive  and  warm  and  fond. 

To  where  a  rayless  sun  that  never  smiled 
Looks  down  on  his  own  face  in  the  pale  ice 
Of  vast  and  lifeless  seas  in  the  Beyond  ? 


V. 


O,  rosy  as  the  lining  of  a  shell 

Were  the  wee  hands  that  now  are  white  as  snows ; 

And  like  pink  coral,  with  their  elfin  toes, 

The  feet  that  on  life's  brambles  never  fell. 

And  with  its  tiny  smile,  adorable 

The  mouth  that  never  knew  life's  bitter  sloes ; 

And  like  the  incurved  petal  of  a  rose 

The  little  ear,  now  deaf  in  Death's  strong  spell. 

Now,  while  the  seasons  in  their  order  roll, 

And  sun  and  rain  pour  down  from  God's  great  dome. 

And  deathless  stars  shine  nightly  overhead, 

Near  other  children,  with  her  little  doll. 

She  waits  the  wizard  that  will  never  come 

To  wake  the  sleep-struck  playground  of  the  dead. 


II 


VI. 

What  wast  thou,  little  baby,  that  art  dead — 
A  one  day's  blossom  that  the  hoar-frost  nips  ? 
A  bee  that's  crushed,  the  first  bright  day  it  sips  ? 
A  small  dropped  gem  that  in  the  earth  we  tread  ? 

Or  cherub's  smiling  gold-encircled  head. 
That  Death  from  out  Life's  painted  missal  rips  ? 
Or  murmured  prayer  that  barely  reached  the  lips  ? 
Or  sonnet's  fair  first  line — the  rest  unsaid  ? 

O,  'tis  not  hard  to  find  what  thou  wast  like ; 
The  world  is  full  of  fair  unfinished  things 
That  vanish  like  a  dawn-admonished  elf. 

Life  teems  with  opening  forms  for  Death  to  strike 
The  woods  are  fuU  of  unfledged  broken  wings  ; 
Enough  for  us,  thou  wast  thy  baby  self. 


13 


VII. 

We  found  a  baby  tortoise,  whose  green  shell 
Seemed  carved  by  elfin  hands  ;  whose  feet  and  head 
Peeped  shy  and  tiny  on  the  garden  bed 
That  was  the  world  wherein  God  bade  it  dwell. 

We  watched  it  for  some  mornings.     Then  befell 
The  cruelty  of  Fate.     The  careless  tread 
Of  some  unconscious  foot :  and  lo,  'twas  dead  ; 
While  Nature  coldly  smiled,  and  said  :  "  All's  well." 

All's  well  ? — O  God,  why  bring  into  the  world 
A  living  thing,  whose  smallest  dainty  parts 
Exceed  man's  nicest  art ;  and  then  and  there, 

Tortoise  or  babe,  or  blossom  half  unfurled, 

Crush  it  beneath  the  fatal  foot  that  starts 

None  knows  from  whence,  and  hurries  none  knows  where  ? 


IS 


VIII. 

Where  Mimma  lies,  some  nameless  children  sleep, 

Whose  graves,  in  the  obliterating  grass, 

Sink  slowly,  as  the  empty  seasons  pass. 

And  look  like  waves  on  Time's  slow-heaving  deep. 

No  tears,  no  flowers  ;  save  when  spring-clouds  weep 
Upon  them  ;  or  the  breeze  with  faint  "  Alas  !  " 
Brings  them  stray  petals  from  the  flowery  mass 
Upon  some  grave  that  Love  and  Sorrow  keep. 

Who  were  they  ?     No  one  knows.     But  theirs  this  wreath 
Of  fourteen  berries,  that  a  stranger  brings 
With  blossoms  for  his  child  that  lies  beneath. 

For  Life,  their  names  are  faint  forgotten  things  ; 
But  now,  within  the  larger  book  of  Death, 
Their  names  are  written  with  the  names  of  kings. 


17 


IX. 

Keep  not  the  sunshine  from  our  Mimma's  grave, 
Nor  screen  her  memory  from  the  sweet  fresh  air ; 
Speak  of  her  still  as  if  she  still  were  here  ; 
Let  thought  and  word  around  her  freely  wave. 

Give  her  back  now  the  little  smile  she  gave, 
Nor  treat  her  thought  as  one  too  sharp  to  bear, 
But  as  a  thing  for  ever  sweet  and  fair, 
That  we  would  fain  from  shade  and  silence  save. 

O  ye,  who  stopped  and  gazed  into  her  face, 
And  knew  her  for  the  dainty  babe  she  was, 
Fear  not  to  pain  us,  uttering  her  name ; 

Nor  fear  to  cast  the  sunlight  on  the  place 
Where  memory  keeps  the  sweetest  thing  it  has, 
As  fresh  as  on  the  day  on  which  she  came. 


19 


X, 

'Tis  Christmas,  and  we  gaze  with  downbent  head 
On  something  that  the  post  has  brought  too  late 
To  reach  thee,  Mimma,  through  the  narrow  gate. 
From  one  who  did  not  know  that  thou  art  dead ; 

A  picture-book,  to  play  with  on  thy  bed ; 

And  we,  who  should  have  heard  thee  laugh  and  prate 

So  busily,  sit  here  at  war  with  Fate, 

And  turn  the  pages  silently  instead. 

O  that  I  knew  thee  playing  'neath  God's  eyes, 

With  the  small  souls  of  all  the  dewy  flowers 

That  strewed  thy  grave,  and  died  at  Autumn's  breath  ; 

Or  with  the  phantom  of  the  doll  that  lies 
Beside  thee  for  Eternity's  long  hours, 
In  the  dim  nursery  that  men  call  Death  ! 


21 


XI. 

O  bless  the  law  that  veils  the  Future's  face  ; 
For  who  could  smile  into  a  baby's  eyes, 
Or  bear  the  beauty  of  the  evening  skies, 
If  he  could  see  what  cometh  on  apace? 

The  ticking  of  the  death-watch  would  replace 
The  baby's  prattle  for  the  over-wise ; 
The  breeze's  murmur  would  become  the  cries 
Of  stormy  petrels  where  the  breakers  race. 

We  live  as  moves  the  walker  in  his  sleep, 
Who  walks  because  he  sees  not  the  abyss 
His  feet  are  skirting  as  he  goes  his  way : 

If  we  could  see  the  morrow  from  the  steep 

Of  our  security,  the  soul  would  miss 

Its  footing,  and  fall  headlong  from  to-day. 


23 


XII. 

Mantled  in  purple  dusk,  Imperial  Death, 
Thy  throne  Time's  mist,  thy  crown  the  clustered  stars, 
Thy  orb  the  world ; — did  Nature's  countless  wars 
Yield  insufficient  incense  for  thy  breath  ? 

Hadst  not  enough  with  all  who  troop  beneath 
Thy  inward-opening  gates,  whose  shadowy  bars 
Give  back  nor  kings  in  their  triumphal  cars. 
Nor  the  worn  throngs  that  old  age  hurrieth  ? 

O  sateless  Death,  most  surely  it  was  thou, 
(A  thousand  ages,  yea,  and  longer  still, 
Before  the  words  were  heard  in  Galilee) 

That  saidst  with  dark  contraction  of  thy  brow. 
While  through  all  Nature  ran  an  icy  chill : 
"  Now  let  the  little  children  come  to  me." 


25 


XIII. 

One  day,  I  mind  me,  now  that  she  is  dead. 
When  nothing  warned  us  of  the  dark  decree, 
I  crooned,  to  lull  her,  in  a  minor  key, 
Such  fancies  as  first  came  into  my  head. 

I  crooned  them  low,  beside  her  little  bed  ; 
And  the  refrain  was  somehow  "  Come  with  me 
And  we  will  wander  by  the  purple  sea"; 
I  crooned  it,  and — God  help  me  ! — felt  no  dread. 

O  Purple  Sea,  beyond  the  stress  of  storms, 
Where  never  ripple  breaks  upon  the  shore 
Of  Death's  pale  Isles  of  Twilight  as  they  dream. 

Give  back,  give  back,  O  Sea  of  Nevermore, 

The  frailest  of  the  unsubstantial  forms 

Who  leave  the  shores  that  are  for  those  that  seem  ! 


^^ 


XIV. 


O  brook  that  fell  too  soon  into  the  sea, 
That  never  mingled  with  the  broader  streams, 
To  roll  through  mighty  cities,  where  the  steams 
Of  vice  and  woe  obscure  the  pageantry  ; 

Nor  passed  where  glorious  summits,  standing  free. 
Catch  the  full  measure  of  the  midday  gleams  ; 
Nor  crossed  the  Gorges  of  the  Evil  Dreams, 
And  Valley  of  the  Hopes  that  May  not  Be : 

We  went  beside  it  for  a  little  while, 
Watching  its  play,  the  ripple  of  its  smile, 
Its  babble  as  it  wandered  on  its  way  ; 

And  lo,  its  course  was  run,  and  it  was  lost, 

As  quickly  as  an  evanescent  frost. 

In  Death's  dim  Ocean  that  before  us  lay. 


'9 


XV. 

How  patiently  they  did  their  work  of  old, 
Those  cowled  illuminators  of  the  cells, 
Painting  their  vellum  from  the  small  ribbed  shells 
That  held  the  mystic  carmine  and  the  gold  ; 

Matching  God's  tints  in  every  glowing  fold, 
In  nimbus,  wing,  and  robe  ;  and  by  their  spells 
Seizing  the  living  glory  in  the  wells 
Of  some  great  sunrise  that  His  hand  had  scrolled. 

They  made  immortal  cherubs  that  retain, 
In  spite  of  Time  and  his  effacing  trace, 
Their  pristine  loveliness  from  age  to  age  ; 

As  Death,  the  cowled  one,  with  his  brush  of  pain, 

Illuminates  some  lovely  baby  face 

In  sunrise  tints  on  Memory's  missal  page. 


31 


XVI. 

It  is  the  season  when  the  elves  of  Spring 

Help  up  the  first  anemones  that  peep 

Through  the  young  corn,  and  rouse  from  out  their  sleep 

The  pale  green  hellebores  for  March  to  swing  ; 

Before  they  bid  the  field  narcissus  fling 
Its  perfume  on  the  furrows  that  they  keep, 
Or  let  the  wild  red  tulip's  flame  upleap 
In  honour  of  great  April's  Fairy  King. 

O  God,  to  think  that  In  a  spring  or  two 
When  she  had  learnt  to  run,  we  were  to  stroll 
Among  the  fields  where  work  the  busy  elves, 

And  see  her  pick  the  daffodils  that  strew 
Each  olive-planted  terrace  and  sweet  knoll. 
And  the  wild  tulips  on  the  grassy  shelves  ! 


33 


XVII. 

Now  Florence  fills  her  lap  with  buds  of  May, 
And  all,  with  roses,  be  they  rich  or  poor, 
Stream  through  the  great  cathedral's  brazen  door, 
To  get  them  blessed  upon  the  Roses'  Day. 

Roses  and  yet  more  roses,  brought  away 
From  hundreds  of  wild  gardens.  Spring's  great  store, 
Are  blessed ;  but,  crushed  on  the  cathedral  floor, 
Lies  many  a  bud  that  caught  the  dawn's  first  ray. 

And  so  we  cried  :  "  O  Priest,  a  bud  we'll  bring 
For  thee  to  bless,  fresh-sprinkled  by  the  morn, 
When  myriad  roses  crown  triumphant  Spring. 

Late  to  the  breeze  it  came,  through  many  a  thorn, 
On  our  grey  villa  wall,  a  frail  sweet  thing, 
Of  sun  and  rain,  of  smile  and  sorrow  born." 


35 


XVIII. 

O  pale  pressed  Rose-bud  in  the  Book  of  Death, 
Where  thou  outbloomest  many  a  perfect  rose 
That  strews  her  petals  at  her  full  life's  close 
Beneath  November's  violating  breath  ; 

Too  well  thou  heardest  what  the  Spring  wind  saith 
To  the  small  buds  of  which  the  gods  compose 
Their  fatal  wreaths,  and  what  May  sings  to  those 
That  shall  not  hear  what  Autumn  uttereth. 

When  Azrael  turns  slowly  one  by  one 

The  leaves  of  his  great  Book,  by  pale  gleam  lit, 

And  sees  thee  whom  he  plucked  by  morn's  bright  sun, 

Perhaps,  O  Rose-bud,  in  that  silent  place, 
A  wistful  smile,  as  of  regret,  may  flit 
O'er  his  inscrutable  angelic  face. 


37 


XIX. 

We  search  the  darkness  from  the  villa's  height, 
Guessing  where  cupola  and  dome  and  spire 
Of  Florence  lie  ;  till  eyes  begin  to  tire 
'Mid  the  illusive  shadows  of  the  night. 

Then  suddenly  there  sparkles  into  sight 
A  mighty  dome,  rimmed  round  in  points  of  fire, 
Its  segments  outlined  as  by  glowing  wire ; 
And  fairy  towers  follow,  fiery  bright. 

An  evanescent  city  built  of  stars, 
The  fair  illumination  of  an  hour, 
Born  of  the  night,  and  quenched  before  the  dawn ; 

Like  the  bright  dream  on  Life's  horizon  bars 
That  held  us  for  a  moment  in  its  power, 
Ere  Death's  dark  curtain  over  it  was  drawn. 


39 


XX. 

Do  you  remember  how,  with  Fancy's  hand, 
We  shaped  her  future  as  in  living  clay ; 
Modelled  her  life,  and  saw  the  child  display 
Each  day  fresh  charm,  and  beauty's  lines  expand  ? 

And  how,  before  our  love  could  understand 
What  Fate  was  working,  lo,  we  found  one  day 
The  image  finished  as  but  God's  hand  may  ; 
And  it  was  Death's  chill  marble  that  we  scann'd  ? 

How  well  I  see  her  on  her  cold  white  bed. 
Between  the  branch  of  olive  and  the  palm, 
The  little  cross  of  pearls  upon  her  breast ; 

And  oh,  the  frozen  beauty  of  the  head, 
The  clear-cut  lips,  interminably  calm. 
The  eyelids  sealed  in  pale  seraphic  rest ! 


41 


XXI. 

I  pass  the  Innocent!  *  in  the  square 

That  Ferdinand  eternally  rides  through 

In  bronze  on  his  bronze  steed  ; — where,  white  on  blue, 

Stand  the  swathed  babies  made  of  Robbia  ware ; 

Babies  that  brave  the  centuries  ; — still  fair 
Up  high  on  their  round  discs ;  that  never  drew 
With  woman's  milk  pain's  certainty,  nor  knew 
Life's  joy  and  woe,  its  triumph,  its  despair. 

What  of  the  real  living  babes  within  ; — 

Some  carved  by  Love,  the  Lord  of  Careless  Years, 

And  many  by  the  leering  sculptor  Sin  ; 

Some  fair  enough,  and  others  that  appal ; 
Modelled  in  clay  of  sorrow,  damped  with  tears. 
And  left  for  Death  to  play  with,  one  and  all  ? 

•  The  great  Foundling  Hospital  of  Florence. 


43 


XXII. 

of  old  the  shuddering  mother  rang  a  bell, 
And  laid,  by  night,  the  babe  she  loathed  or  feared 
In  a  small  crib  that  suddenly  appeared 
From  out  the  wall,  and  vanished  as  by  spell, 

While  high  above  her,  shrined  in  azure  shell. 
With  one  dim  lamp,  the  Mother  that  has  heard 
Uncounted  orisons  for  babe  conferred 
Smiled  on  Her  aureoled  Child  where  faint  light  fell. 

O  irony — that  mother's  hand  should  throw 
Her  unweaned  offspring,  like  a  thing  that's  dead, 
Into  that  gulf  of  namelessness  and  woe, 

When  we,  resisting  the  remorseless  Powers 
That  lay  their  leaguer  round  a  baby's  bed. 
Fought  inch  by  inch  to  save  the  smile  of  ours  ! 


45 


XXIII. 

Do  you  recall  the  scents,  the  insect  whirr, 

Where  we  had  laid  her  in  the  chestnut  shade  ? 

How  discs  of  sunlight  through  the  bright  leaves  played 

Upon  the  grass,  as  we  bent  over  her  ? 

How  roving  breezes  made  the  bracken  stir 

Beside  her,  while  the  bumble-bee,  arrayed 

In  brown  and  gold,  hummed  round  her,  and  the  glade 

Was  strewn  with  last  year's  chestnuts'  prickly  fur  ? 

There  in  the  forest's  ripe  and  fragrant  heat 

She  lay  and  laughed,  and  kicked  her  wee  bare  feet. 

And  stretched  wee  hands  to  grasp  some  woodland  bell ; 

And  played  her  little  games  ;  and  when  we  said 
"  Cuckoo,''  would  lift  her  frock,  and  hide  her  head, 
Which  now,  God  knows,  is  hidden  but  too  well. 


47 


XXIV. 

We  walk  by  Shelley's  sea,  upon  the  sands 
Where  he  was  cast,  whom  Air,  and  Earth,  and  Brine 
Gave  up  to  Flame — their  brother  more  divine — 
Who  held  him  in  his  hundred  fluttering  hands ; 

And  gaze  where  in  the  cloudless  heaven  stands 
Carrara's  jagged  purple  mountain  line, 
Snow-sprinkled,  over  tufted  woods  of  pine 
That  stretch  away  in  bright  green  sunlit  bands. 

The  children  with  their  sunburnt  naked  feet, 
Ripple-pursued,  with  laughter  and  shrill  cry 
Play  in  and  out,  where  land  and  water  meet. 

So  once  we  thought,  O  Mimma,  thou  wouldst  play  ; 
Forgetful  of  how  dumb  the  threat  can  lie, 
As  in  yon  guilty  depths,  all  sun  to-day. 


49 


XXV. 

O  little  ship  that  passed  us  in  the  night, 
What  sunrise  wast  thou  bound  for,  as  we  sailed 
Our  longer  voyage  in  the  wind  that  wailed, 
Across  dark  waves,  with  few  great  stars  in  sight  ? 

Or  wast  thou  bound  for  where,  in  dim  half-light, 
The  Isles-that-None-Return-From  lie  thick-veiled 
In  their  eternal  mist ;  and,  shrunk  and  paled. 
The  sun  of  Ghostland  shines  from  changeless  height  ? 

We  had  but  time  to  hail  and  ask  her  name. 

It  sounded  faint,  like  "  Persis,"  and  we  heard 

*'  God's  haven  "  as  the  port  from  which  she  came  ; 

Bound  for  .  .  .  But  in  the  sobbing  of  the  wind, 
And  clash  of  waves,  we  failed  to  catch  the  word, 
And  she  was  gone  ;  and  we  were  left  behind. 


51 


XXVI. 

Lo,  through  the  open  window  of  the  room 
That  was  her  nursery,  a  small  bright  spark 
Comes  wandering  in,  as  falls  the  summer  dark, 
And  with  a  measured  flight  explores  the  gloom, 

As  if  it  sought,  among  the  things  that  loom 
Vague  in  the  dusk,  for  some  familiar  mark, 
And  like  a  light  on  some  wee  unseen  bark. 
It  tacks  in  search  of  who  knows  what  or  whom  ? 

I  know  'tis  but  a  fire-fly ;  yet  its  flight. 

So  straight,  so  measured,  round  the  empty  bed, 

Might  be  a  little  soul's  that  night  sets  free  ; 

And  as  it  nears,  I  feel  my  heart  grow  tight 
With  something  like  a  superstitious  dread. 
And  watch  it  breathless,  lest  it  should  be  she. 


53 


XXVII. 

Once,  breaking  open  an  Etruscan  tomb, 
Men  came  upon  a  figure,  lying  there 
In  seeming  sleep,  pale,  young,  and  very  fair. 
Wearing  a  small  gold  locket  in  the  gloom. 

But  scarce  the  breeze  had  filled  the  buried  room, 
The  form  fell  in  :  robe,  pallid  cheek,  and  hair 
Turned  to  white  ash  beneath  the  newer  air ; 
And  on  that  ash  they  saw  the  gold  still  loom. 

So  Mimma  Bella  for  a  moment  passed 
Before  us  like  a  vision  ;  then  was  snatched 
Back  into  night,  and  vanished  in  Death's  cold. 

But,  as  in  Griefs  dim  sepulchre  we  watched 
Her  beauty's  crumbling  ash  that  whitened  fast, 
Lo,  the  faint  gleam  of  uncorroded  gold. 


55 


XXVIII. 

What  alchemy  is  thine,  O  little  Child, 
Transmuting  all  our  thoughts,  thou  that  art  dead. 
And  making  gold  of  all  the  dross  of  lead 
That  leaves  the  soul's  pure  crucible  defiled ; 

A  vaporous  gold,  which  I  would  fain  have  piled 
Upon  my  palette,  and  with  light  brush  spread 
On  Death's  dark  background,  that  thy  baby  head 
Might  wear  a  nimbus  where  the  angels  smiled  ? 

Thus  had  I  given  back  what  thou  hast  wrought 
In  my  own  soul,  and  placed  thee  high  among 
The  cherubs  that  are  aureoled  in  glow ; 

Rimming  thy  brow  with  fine  red  gold  of  thought, 
In  such  fair  pictures  as  the  English  tongue 
Shrines  in  its  sanctuaries  while  ages  flow. 


57 


XXIX. 

What  essences  from  Idumean  palm, 

What  ambergris,  what  sacerdotal  wine, 

What  Arab  myrrh,  what  spikenard  would  be  thine. 

If  I  could  swathe  thy  memory  in  such  balm  ! 

O  for  wrecked  gold,  from  depths  for  ever  calm, 
To  fashion  for  thy  name  a  fretted  shrine  ; 

0  for  strange  gems,  still  locked  in  virgin  mine, 

To  stud  the  pyx,  where  thought  would  bring  sweet  psalm  ! 

1  have  but  this  small  rosary  of  rhyme, — 

No  rubies  but  heart's  drops,  no  pearls  but  tears. 
To  lay  upon  the  altar  of  thy  name, 

O  Mimma  Bella ; — on  the  shrine  that  Time 
Makes  ever  holier  for  the  soul,  while  years 
Obliterate  the  roll  of  human  fame. 


59 


LAST  SONNETS. 


1. 

The  Black  Caravan. 

The  desert.     Sand  and  salt.     The  fall  of  night. 
And  suddenly  you  see  a  long-drawn  string 
Of  coffin-laden  camels,  hurrying 
Across  the  waste  of  thirst  in  the  dim  light. 

And  swerving  wide,  you  shudder  from  the  sight. 
As  you'd  shrink  back  from  some  ill-omened  thing, 
While  pass  the  captives  of  the  Shadowy  King, 
Who  thirst  no  more,  no  more  look  left  or  right. 

So,  sometimes  in  the  Desert  of  the  Years 
A  ghostly  train,  a  convoy  of  the  Dead, 
In  a  soul's  twilight  suddenly  appears  ; 

Dead  aims  and  dead  ideals,  once  athirst 

For  Life's  bright  wells  ;  now  stark  and  dumb  and  dread. 

And  wrapped  in  horror,  like  a  thing  accurst. 


63 


II. 

Purple  Shadows. 

We  stand  upon  the  terrace,  looking  down 
On  Florence,  that  the  sunset  rays  have  kissed, 
And  that  is  robing  in  her  purple  mist 
As  the  slow  daylight  wanes  upon  the  town  ; 
While  her  great  dome,  in  deeper  purple  shown. 
Seems,  for  a  moment,  built  of  amethyst, 
Ere  blending  with  the  shadows  that  insist, 
And  with  the  hills  that  Evening  makes  his  own. 

Then  out  of  the  still  city,  as  it  looms 
Dreamy  and  restful,  suddenly  there  booms 
The  deep  reverberation  of  a  bell ; 
Recalling  what  the  unrelenting  year 
Has  swept  away,  of  lives  that  were  too  dear. 
And  sounding  their  illimitable  knell. 


65 


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